Bernard’s mother loves the game of Clue. And detective novels, and guessing lives for people who walk by as they sit together on the park bench. Bernard swings his feet in concentration, licking earnestly at his ice cream cone, unconsciously compulsive to shape it into a perfect dome.

“Mmph. Look at that woman. If you’re ever lost and need help, do not go to a mother like that. See how she ignores her daughter? Look at that little girl, turning so hopefully towards her mother to see if she is watching, and finding her never watching.

“Well. The suit is too big, and too long, but he walks like his shoes are too small.”

“Bravo, Bello. Very good. The pants are very long. People can grow fat or thin, but not drastically taller or shorter once they are grown, yes? So the clothes and shoes are not his own. What else do you see?”

Bernard, a remarkably tidy child speaks the last part passionately, having despaired only that morning over the state of his own hair, which gaily misbehaved in ways Bernard never would.

“This man, he is clean, combed and dressed in the clothes of others. Maybe there is no money, yes? He wears dressy shoes even though they are paining him. It must be very important that he look nice for something. Or someone. So. What is it then, this most important thing?”

“Maybe a job interview,” Bernard says hopefully. “He needs a job. I don’t think he’s had any money for a long time. We should buy him a hotdog from the cart. I think he is hungry and can’t afford to buy one. He only ever gets to smell them.”

Bernard’s stomach rumbles empathetically. The hotdogs smell wonderful to him and he is not even really hungry. They must smell unbearably delicious to the man.

The beginnings of his Adam’s apple bobs awkwardly, emitting a series of impotent clicks against the imperative that someone must cry for this man who hungers alone in tight shoes.

A group of a dozen children pour onto the playground. They are young and querulous, peeping and disorganized as baby quail flushed from the grass.

Well behind them, a woman with glasses large and thick, waddles happily along. Her front teeth buck out and down as if attempting to impart a sunny grin to her own chin. She wears a singularly garish Mumu, and has suffered a bad home perm. Her hair looks like a burnt wig styled by an angry monkey.

Well pleased, Bernard examines the newly perfect dome of his ice cream cone then smashes it flat against his tongue, shuddering briefly in satisfaction.

“Do you want money to buy him a hotdog?”

“No. I have my own money.”

Bernard hands his mother his ice cream cone and stands. He tucks in his shirt then picks his way carefully down the slope.

He buys not just a hotdog, but a bottle of his favorite orange soda as well. Bernard selects a straw, arranges a selection of condiment packs alongside the hot dog, and gathers up a thick stack of napkins.

Bernard walks towards the man, whose back is to him, and feels his confidence leaking out all at once. What if the man is a vegetarian? What if he hates orange soda? What if he’s Diabetic?

He finds a suitable patch of grass and sets down the hot dog, angling to display its most attractive side and places the soda precisely beside it. Bernard stands.

“There are also extra napkins. I always get mustard on myself,” he confesses without eye contact. “Well, enjoy your day. I have to be leaving now.”

Bernard swings around abruptly and runs nearly into his mother, who is always watching. She exchanges an unseen look with the man then smiles down on Bernard, her breath sweet with ice cream, and says,

“Come, my darling. It is time to go,” and then they go.

As they walk up the incline Bernard feels the weight of the sun on his back and thinks to himself,

“That man has been to war,” quickly followed by, “I am giving Summer a piggy-back ride.”

“I do too,” blurts the man.

Bernard and his mother stop, looking back over their shoulders. The man is gesturing helplessly down the front of his suit as if now wordless and trying to convey,

‘Were it not for you, there would be mustard here, and here, and here.’

“I understand!” Bernard calls back, waving wildly, like a boy trying to be seen from very far away. “I understand.”